


Being Alive

by tilia_cordata



Category: Glee
Genre: Assault, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilia_cordata/pseuds/tilia_cordata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death loved Kurt Hummel. But it is a heavy burden, being Death's favorite child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to alexis-meadling on Tumblr for initial comments and suggestions, and to my wife for the final read-through. With respect to the warnings, each chapter (except this chapter and the next, which is pre-canon) is set during an episode - 3 during "Grilled Cheesus," 4 during "On My Way," 5 three weeks before "The Quarterback," and 6 during "Bash," so the warnings are directly related to the things that happened in those episodes. 
> 
> There are specific warnings for each chapter.

One afternoon when Kurt Hummel is four years old, he darts away from his mother at the park. Before she can catch him, he is across the field from her, at the blanket of a woman sitting alone. Elizabeth Hummel doesn’t recognize the woman, wonders if Kurt knows her from preschool, because by the time she has reached him he has his arms wrapped tightly around her. When he pulls away, he looks at her with shining and uncanny blue eyes, and says, “It’s ok. She’s ok and she doesn’t want you to be sad anymore.”

The woman stares down at Kurt, and Elizabeth sees her eyes are wet with tears. “How -” the woman starts to ask, then shakes her head and gives the little boy a hug.

“I’m sorry if he’s bothering you,” Elizabeth says to the woman, putting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder.

“Oh no, it’s alright,” the woman replies, wiping her eyes. “I just - I -” she takes a deep breath, and tries again. “Your son must be very sensitive, or perceptive, or something, because he told me something I’ve been wanting very badly to hear for the last week.”

She doesn’t seem to want to offer anymore, but gives Kurt one more hug before nudging him back to his mother. Elizabeth doesn’t press it; she smiles at the woman and scooped Kurt into her arms, telling him how kind and wonderful he is to comfort that woman so freely, but Kurt my darling you cannot just run away from momma like that. And he nods and holds her close.

That was the first time. The first time, through the cracks and gaps and splinters between worlds, Kurt heard and Kurt knew. Other people sometimes heard, like conversations carried on the wind. They usually ignored, but Kurt listened.

He heard and knew and listened again. Was the very first person to offer a hug when his pre-school classmate’s grandmother died, before anyone knew, before anyone told him. Asked his mother if they could make cookies to bring to a neighbor sitting shiva, though he did not know what shiva meant. Had kind words and flowers ready when his first grade class arrived at school and found their hamster not moving in its cage.

He heard him, just out of sight, just out of reach. He listened to her when asked for favors, because she knew she was unwelcome, but could sent comfort through a conduit.  

Yes, Death loved Kurt Hummel, who heard and knew and listened. But they loved him too much, became too greedy, and began to cut too close.

 

 


	2. Momma

Kurt Hummel was eight years old when strange dreams and familiar whispers pulled him awake in the middle of the night. “Momma!” he shouted, but she wouldn’t hear him from his room down the hall.

He felt it, the thing from the gaps between worlds, closer and louder than ever before. So he ran to his parent’s room, repeating to himself _just a dream just a dream_ even when he could hear the whispers saying _No_.

“Momma!” he cried when he pushed the door open. His father, bleary eyed, rolled over and switched on the light.

“Kurt?” he groaned a little. “What’s wrong, buddy?”

Kurt ran up to the bed and crawled in, looking at his father with big, sad, eyes. “Momma?” he asked. He was eight, he knew he should ask a whole question, but he was too scared and shaken.    


“She’s at her sister’s until tomorrow, remember?” he looked over at the clock - it was 4:30 in the morning. “Even better, she’ll be home today. Helping out with the new baby, and the next time she goes we can go too so you can meet your new little cousin. She’ll be home in time to pick you up from piano, ok?” Kurt nodded, even though he could hear, from under the shadows, _No_.

It wasn’t a cruel _no_ \- Death did not want to be cruel. Death loved Kurt. Death wanted Kurt to be prepared, to be ready. But how could he be ready for this?

Burt had just started to doze again, his son curled under his arm, when the phone rang. “Hello?” he mumbled. “Yeah, this is him.” He bolted upright in the bed. “Where is she? What happened?” And then he was very, very quiet and very, very still as he listened and then hung up the phone.

“Kurt, we have to go. Can you put on your shoes and get your coat?” Kurt didn’t ask where they were going or why - he knew because he had been warned.  

The next three hours were a blur of driving and waiting rooms and doctors and police officers. They learned that Elizabeth had left her sister’s early, in the middle of the night, hoping to surprise her boys for breakfast. The roads were icy, a truck spun out. They were very sorry, there hadn’t been anything they could do. She most likely died instantly.

Kurt didn’t understand most of what was going on, but he understood “died”. He clung tightly to his father, everything else swirling around him. Somewhere else, over or under the voices of his father, the doctor, his aunt, there was another. Whispering. _She is protected. She feels no pain. She loves you. She says goodbye._

He wanted to ask, “But what do I do?” but the words didn’t come. But an answer came anyway. _She is safe. The dead are safe with me. Comfort the living._

Kurt buried his face into his father’s shirt. He wanted to hide there forever, safe and close. But his father was shaking.

Funeral plans started the next day. Kurt put himself in charge of flowers; Burt shared a rare smile with the florist watching this small, serious child carefully appraising peonies and lilies.

Their house was suddenly full of people, and even though all Kurt wanted to do was hide in his room, or tucked among his mother’s blankets, or else stay as close as possible to his father, he took the task he had been charged with very seriously. Comfort the living. So he floated from cousin to uncle to old family friend, offering food and tea and clean towels, acting like a little valet instead of a grieving child.

His father pulled him away neatly remaking the bed in the guestroom, the night before the funeral. “You know you don’t have to do all this stuff? Take care of everyone?” Kurt nodded, and continued tucking in sheets. “If it helps, if it makes you feel better, to take care of things, it’s ok. I just want you to know that you don’t have to. Our family is here to help us out, ok?” Kurt nodded again, but didn’t stop with the sheets. He had to take care of things, he had to keep everything going, he had to take care of the people who were here.

Because whispers kept following him, telling him what people needed, telling them how to comfort, and in exchange reassuring Kurt that his mother was safe, his mother was cared for, his mother loved him.

***

Death sat alone, peering into the space between words. Life approached them, asking, “Why do you do that? Why do you make them suffer? You have said that out of all of them the little one is your favorite. Why did you make him hurt?”

Death was somber. “I didn’t have a choice. It was her time. I had to take her. I have to take all of them, the ones you put there, eventually. The least I can do is see if I can get them to comfort each other.” Death watched Kurt sleeping in his father’s arms.

Life shook their head and walked away. 

 


	3. Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during "Grilled Cheesus."

It was amazing, he thought, how so few words could knock your whole world sideways.

“Kurt, can we talk to you outside?”

He knew this story, what came next, after those words. But it couldn’t, could it? He looked to the edges of his vision, strained to hear, but there wasn’t anything else. Why would there be, if, he kept being reassured, that his father was going to be fine.

Nothing felt like it was going to be fine, seeing his father unconscious and unmoving. It didn’t feel fine with Ms. Pillsbury and Mr. Schue hovering behind him, asking gently if he needed anything or if he was ok or if they could do anything for him. The answer stayed “no” until a nurse gently tapped him on the shoulder and said that visiting hours were over, that they would call him if anything changed, and he could come back before school the next morning.

He stepped into the hallway where his teachers were waiting. “The nurse said I can’t stay overnight,” he said in a high, strained voice.

“Right,” said Mr. Schue, “do you want a ride to a friend’s? To Mercedes’ or Tina’s? Or to Finn and his mom’s?”

“I’d just like a ride back to school, to get my car,” he answered quietly. “I just want to go home.”

“Oh, Kurt,” said Ms. Pillsbury, “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to be alone, or driving. Are we sure we can’t take you somewhere else?”

“No. No, thank you,” he added, politely but coldly. “I just want to get my car and go home.” So they obliged.

Kurt kept himself solid and upright in Mr. Schue’s car and in his own, steady and straight ahead as he unlocked the door and turned the front lights on. As soon as the door is shut behind him, he couldn’t take another step, and he sank down to the floor, his body shaking with sobs.

Into the quiet of the empty house, unable to contain it anymore, Kurt shouted. “Why? Why would you take him too? Wasn’t she enough for you? Haven’t you taken enough from us?” Questions to a voice that wouldn’t give an answer.

“Why won’t you answer me?!” Kurt shouted at the walls. “Why wouldn’t you warn me, like last time?”

_Because your mother was already gone. I do not have your father. I might not have your father at all._ The voice rippled under the air. 

“But he might be dying! Don’t you know? You’re Death, aren’t you?”

Kurt had never named the voice before. He had gravitated toward things that were like death - skulls and black things and brooches of beetles and mounted animal heads. He knew, every bit of him knew, that the whispers he’d heard his whole life, the warnings and requests, came from Death itself. But he had never before named them.

_ Yes. I am Death. I claim people when their time has come. But I do not know when that time is, usually, until moments before. Their time ends, and I know, and I lead them on. You know this.  _

“What do I know? You come and whisper and you warned me my mother had died. I guess I’ve always just assumed, always just hoped, that if anything was going to happen, to him, I’d know - you’d tell me in advance.”

_I’m sorry to have mislead you. I do not know if your father will die_. Kurt sat silently. _I can stay if you want._ Kurt nodded, not sure if he was seen, and continued to feel the presence of the voice around him when he moved upstairs and fell into a fitful sleep in his father’s bed.

Time continued on, as much as Kurt wanted it to just stop. He got up every morning, went to his father at the hospital only to be told there had been no changes. He went to school, though all his classes blurred and he could barely tell where he was at any point in the day, until Glee, where everything was strange. Then back to the hospital to sit and wait and hope.

And then return home to an empty house, either sitting in silence or blasting music until his ears rang just to fill up the space. There was a constant presence, but since that first night, Death was quiet.

“Please don’t make me use it. Please,” he whispered to the air, face wet. There was no answer.

In the end he didn’t need it. In the end his father’s hand moved under his and his eyes fluttered and he came home and was safe. But Kurt kept the notebook, hidden away.

***

“Did you?” Life asked. “Did you spare that boy’s father because he asked?”

Death was quiet. “No. It was not his time.” But Death was not quite sure.

 

 

 


	4. Dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during "On My Way" and contains descriptions of suicidal thoughts and a near attempt between the single stars, if you want to skip.

Nine missed phone calls. Nine missed phone calls but no warning. Nine missed phone calls because he was the one person who maybe could have helped, because he understood and he knew and -

Quinn didn’t understand how Dave could do something so “selfish.” Mercedes couldn’t believe

anyone in New Directions would ever feel that alone. Kurt understood. Kurt believed. (He also knew, looking around that circle, hearing a confirming whisper under the air, that he was not the only one among them who knew what it felt like.)

Twice.

*

Freshman year, after he had assured himself that high school would be better than middle school. Kids would be older, more mature. There would be harder classes and a choir to join, and maybe Kurt would figure himself out (Maybe he would stop looking at other boys the way he was supposed to be looking at pretty girls. Or maybe he would find someone to make looking at boys ok.)

High school, it turned out, was way, way worse than middle school. Everything was bigger and crueler - there were twice as many people, and yet somehow Kurt seemed to stick out, call attention to himself without saying a word. Choir was one day of Sandy Ryerson’s fingers on his chest, light and airy but too too close. Kurt didn’t go back after that, but words and implications and insinuations followed him. He learned what the inside of the dumpster smelled like, that gym showers were mostly empty at lunch and to always keep extra clothes in his locker.

Things were awful but he couldn’t complain, needed to keep up a brave face. Need to be stronger and tougher and never let them see him cry. Because he did cry, in moments alone and when no one could hear him. He cried and sometimes whispered, to the voice under the shadows, “What if I went with you?” Knowing exactly what that question meant.

The voice always answered, _I would protect you. But it is not your time yet._

Two years later.

Things were supposed to be good now. He had best friends, he was singing. There was even a _boy_ , an utterly unexpected fairytale boy. But this fairytale story had a monster looming, and there was nothing anyone, least of all Kurt, could do about it.

On this particular evening, after “There’s nothing legally I can do” and an hour-long shower to get the prickle of Karofsky’s nearness to him off his skin, Kurt tried to distract himself with wedding planning. He was trying to cut out table numbers with neat scrolled edges, but his hands were less steady than they should have been, and the craft knife slipped. Just grazed his finger, one little drop of blood fell on the cardstock.

Kurt stared at the nick on his finger (the knife so sharp it hadn’t hurt at all). He wondered if he -

He turned the little craft knife over in his hands, pressed the dull side against his skin, and traced the tip, just sharp enough to leave faint white lines, along the veins in his arm and his wrist. He could -

He turned the knife, the carefully sharpened blade just resting on his skin. Death had always lingered near him - maybe this was why. It wouldn’t hurt, it was so sharp and clean and -

Doors clattered and feet pounded upstairs, and at the same time Kurt’s phone buzzed on his desk. He dropped the knife, snapped out of the haze he’d been in. At the same time he looked at the phone to see the text from Blaine (Courage!), his father shouted from upstairs, “Kurt, dinner!” And there was another voice, mixed underneath. _I would protect you. But it is not your time yet. You have too much to do, yet._

*

Kurt had never told anyone any of this, though he had always suspected some of them knew. His father, maybe Blaine, maybe Mr. Schuester had an idea. Did Karofsky know? Know how close he’d pushed him?

But now Karofsky - no - Dave - was the one in pain. Was the one who saw no way out. And he had called Kurt, had called Kurt nine times and Kurt had ignored -

“What was I supposed to do?” he called out, in his room, to what he thought was an empty house. “You should have warned me. I could have helped.”

 _I did not know_ , came the reply. _He is not dead._

“But he could have died! He could have- he almost-”

_He didn’t. He is not mine._

A knock on his bedroom door. “Hey, Kurt? You ok? I thought I heard shouting.”

“Oh, ok. Hey, Kurt?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“If you need to talk, about anything, know that I’m here, ok? Even when I’m not here, when I’m in DC, know that I’ll always have time for you. Ok, kid?”

“Yeah, Dad. Of course.”

“I love you, Kurt.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

He waited until footsteps were gone down the stairs before he whispered again. “But what am I supposed to do?”

And the answer. _Take care of the living. Same as always._

So a few days later, when Dave was allowed visitors, Kurt went. Pale and frightened and armored in buttoned up clothes, he went. Set down flowers, and pulled up a chair. He didn’t have a script, didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t mourning. This was living. And together they imagined how to live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Finn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before "The Quarterback," immediately after Finn's death.

He had switched back to wearing black socks. His father was, once again, safe from illness. Kurt mixed the sky colors back into his normal clothing.

So he was wearing black socks and a black sweater when his phone rang, and at the same time a terribly familiar voice whispered, _You should probably sit down. I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you sooner._

 

Hands shaking, Kurt sat on the end of his bed and answered his father’s call.

“Hi, dad. Is everything - Oh, god. What happened? Is he - No. He can’t, I just talked to him this morning, he was fine, everything was fine- Yeah, yes. I’ll be on a flight home tonight if I can. I can start making arrangements, dad, don’t worry about it. Just take care of Carole. I- No, Rachel’s not home. No, I should be the one to tell her. Bye, dad. I love you.”

The call ended and the phone fell from Kurt’s hands. Tears had started falling freely as the voice kept repeating _I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you, it was so sudden, even for me._ Kurt just shook his head, silent tears turning into sobs, loud enough to draw Santana from the couch.

“Hummel, what happened?”

“Santana, it’s Finn. Finn is dead.”

She might have shouted, might have sobbed, but all the sound went out of the world after Kurt said those words out loud. They just sat together, not really comforting or helping or holding, just there, sharing space. Scared of the step that came next.

It took a few minutes, or maybe it was an hour, who could even tell, but eventually Kurt could breathe again. He picked up his fallen phone, holding it lightly like it might burn if he touched too much of it. “I have to call Rachel,” he said flatly to Santana.

They got Rachel to come home, instead of giving her the news over the phone. Not knowing what they were about to tell her, but seeing their faces, her first question walking in was “who died?” Kurt lead her over to her bed, sat her down, told her quietly and carefully.

She didn’t believe them, couldn’t believe them. She called Finn’s phone, over and over, just hearing his voicemail over and over. She became increasingly more frantic until Kurt finally pulled her into a tight hug and let her shake and cry into his arms. Santana just stood back, numb and cold.

Kurt got himself and Rachel onto a flight to Ohio that night. He kept her calm and steady through security, at the gate, while the plane was taking of. He let her lean on him, use him for strength. Eventually he coaxed her sleep, and pulled the black notebook he’d uncovered from under his bed, buried under scrapbooks and planners. His other notebooks and binders were bright and cheery. This one was neat and careful and unadorned.

He carefully paged past “Dad” and “Carole” and “Mercedes” and “Rachel,” lingering at the section of “Songs for Finn to Sing” and noting to himself that he would have to change that. He tried not to look at the page labeled “Blaine.” Past all his friends, anyone important he might be asked or forced to lead the mourning for. Until he reached the page called “Finn” and started to organize his plans.

“I hate this,” he murmured to no one.

_I know. But you are prepared, and you can take care of them._

And he did. He made all the phone calls, attended all the meetings. He cooked, he kept the house clean. He made sure each and every relative and old friend had somewhere to stay, and only let his father and Carole see the very most important people. The morning of the funeral he ironed his father’s suit and laid out Carole’s dress. He listened to practice runs of eulogies and kept everything running. The whole time his eyes were glassy and red, but everyone he saw would say he was careful and efficient and prepared. Because that was who Kurt could be, with a plan and a timeline and a script.

In moments when he was alone, when there wasn’t anywhere he needed to be or anyone else to take care of, he could break down. He cried and yelled and begged to a voice he knew would be listening. Over and over he asked why.

_I do not know why. I do not choose. I only guide._

It wasn’t enough. 

 

 

 


	6. Kurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during "Bash." Thank you for reading!

Kurt seethed as he left the restaurant. Who did Rachel Berry think she was, to say he never took a risk in his life? Caught in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the closeness of that familiar under-the-air whisper.

But it was New York City. There were 8 million people - Death could be coming for anyone at any moment. So Kurt brushed it aside, took a few more steps down the busy sidewalk.

Another noise, one in this world, sharp and angry, cut across the traffic noise. Suddenly Kurt was running, running and shouting, putting himself between this kid ( _the dead may be safe for you, I may be here for the living, but this kid is_ still alive _and you can’t have him not this way not this way not here_ ), pushing them away, saying things he had wanted to say since he was sixteen years old.

And then.

And then sudden pain in the back of his head and stars bursting in front of his eyes. And then he was on the ground and then he felt (heard?) a crack and then everything was black.

And then everything wasn’t quite black, and Kurt was aware of himself, and of someone familiar coming toward him.

“Oh god, have I died? I’ve died, haven’t I? This is what happens, I heard you didn’t I, you weren’t here for him you were coming for me, I -- why do you look like Tilda Swinton?” Kurt said breathlessly and very fast.

Death smiled. “You haven’t died. Not yet. This is -” they paused - “in between? Not quite in your world, not quite in mine.”

Kurt looked steadily ahead. He touched his face, the back of his head under his hair, the spots where pain had burst before everything disappeared. “Why aren’t I bleeding? Wasn’t I hurt?”

“You don’t hurt here. You are safe here. I keep you safe,” Death replied.

“Safe to take me with you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Death studied him, staring hard. Kurt looked them right in the face, steeled and steady.

“Were you here for me, or for him?”

“I am wherever I happen to be.” Death paused. “I will admit that I have lingered close to you in the past.”

“Oh, you think?” Kurt spat. He started to pace, finding solid ground in this not-quite-void. “People deal with death, with people dying. People lose family. Most people don’t have to go through it with Death itself whispering in your ear.”

Death, if such a thing were possible for an ageless and eternal being, looked sheepish. “I was trying to help,” they said quietly.

That was the straw for Kurt. “Oh, you were trying to help?” he shouted. “When I had to take care of everything, when I had to plan funerals and vigils and sit by bedsides? When I was _eight years old_ and thought I had to take care of my father after mom died? When I was _nineteen_ and had to plan my brother’s funeral because no one else could? Why me? Can you tell me that? Why me? Why did I have to be the one to know what to do?”

“Because you listened,” Death answered quietly, “when no one else would.” They paused. “Well, almost no one. You were the youngest. You were this tiny child. This was before your mother, do you remember?” Kurt nodded. “You heard my whispers. Most people don’t hear at all, or they dismiss me as a strange breeze or an odd echo. Some people hear, but they do nothing. You heard, and you did as I asked without question.”

“So you kept asking.”

“And you kept acting. You learned, you picked up on my cues and surrounded yourself in my symbols.”

Kurt shook his head. “I could surround myself in death-things all I wanted, it didn’t make it any less easy. I thought I knew enough, thought I could keep you away from my family. But it never worked, did it? Because here you are, again and again.”

Death looked up, past Kurt. “If I had my way I would keep you here forever. You have always been an otherwordly child, maybe you belong here with me.”

“But -” Kurt started. Four or five years ago, he would have been tempted - it would have been an escape. Now all he could think of were all the things he’d be leaving behind.

“If I had my way. If I let you go right now, you will awaken, not unbroken but alive and fighting. I could keep you, we could keep talking, and the chance you’d be able to return would get smaller and smaller. You could stay and become my apprentice.”

Though he knew the choice he would make, he had to ask before he went. “Would I see Finn again? And my mom? Could I see them here?”

Death frowned. “I do not know. This is a waiting place, an observation place. If we moved beyond, you would see only light and energy and void, and they would be a part of that. I think. I have never made this offer before. I do not know what you would see or feel beyond.”

Kurt looked out into the nothingness, then shook his head. “Let me go back. Let me go. I can’t do this anymore, this foot in each world thing. It’s crazy and unfair. I want to be able to live my life without hearing you whisper and wondering every time if it’s my dad or Carole or Rachel or Blaine or any of my friends. I just can’t do it anymore.”

“You won’t stop taking care of people,” Death said simply. “You will always do this work. It’s in your bones. But you’re right. It’s time I let you go.”

Kurt nodded. “Goodbye,” he said. “I suppose I’ll see you again someday.”

“You will. But not yet.”

Kurt closed his eyes. The solidity under his feet and the void around him pulled inward, and then exploded out. Everything was suddenly loud and bright and blurry. He tried to blink, but his eyelids were heavy and sticky and painful and only one would open.

“Hey, you’re awake. Good! Can you tell me your name?” a strange voice from above him, mixed with traffic noise and sirens.

His mouth felt thick and heavy when he replied, “‘s Kurt.”

“Great! You’re doing great, Kurt. Do you know what day it is?”

“Friday?”

“Perfect. How are you feeling?”

“‘m alive.”

 

 


End file.
